


Stars

by phoenix_in_winter



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Gore, Fever, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, Sneezing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2019-03-19 07:16:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13699575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenix_in_winter/pseuds/phoenix_in_winter
Summary: He hasn’t seen stars in so long.Set between S1 and S2.(Cross-posted.)





	Stars

The bed is too hard and the flesh over his hipbones too thin to sleep on his side. Instead, Will spends his nights staring at the dingy ceiling of his cell. He’s alone most of the time. In some ways, it’s comforting: fewer people’s emotions to overwhelm him. He still has a head full of memories, though. A lifetime’s worth of blood and viscera and severed limbs floating around in his brain, painting the walls a thick red that flows like lava, slow and steaming and horribly beautiful. Through the sickness in the pit of his stomach, he remembers cold joy.

He squeezes his eyes shut until little points of light dot the blackness. He hasn’t seen stars in so long. The stars were out that night, watchful eyes in a frozen sky. He’d been shaking, skin steaming where it brushed against snow (it had, hadn’t it? steamed in the night?), but the stars held fast.

He’s shaking again. He doesn’t realize it until he lifts the back of his hand to wipe away a thin stream of mucous from his nose. It glistens in the dim light until he drops his hand, only to bring it back up a moment later.  _Heh-ktchh!_  Ugh. He pushes the heel of his hand up under his nostrils and sniffs deeply. There’s no Kleenex, and the roll of toilet paper is too far away. He settles for wiping his hand on the worn white sheets.

 _Hih-chh. Huh… heh-chuu!_  He doesn’t bother to cover, just forces himself to sit up. His bed is a ship. The sea is calm, but never still. A few tentative steps, and he’s able to pull off enough thin paper to bring back to bed.  _Huh-chmmp._  He catches the latest sneeze into the meager bundle and blows, hard. He has to wash his hands afterward and pull another length of toilet paper off the roll, but his nose is momentarily clear. It’s not until he falls back into bed that he realizes how alone he really is: no concerned  _looks_  from Alana, no dignified blessings from Dr. Lecter, no annoyance from Jack, no matter-of-fact offerings of tissues or meds from Beverly, not even a lick from a curious dog. He always wanted to be alone in his suffering, but the absence of his dogs feels like a part of him is gone. Some important part. A kidney, maybe. You need those. He swallows against the nausea of contemplating body parts and focuses on the ceiling again. His bed is still rocking in the sea. He stares at the bricks until he can see stars at their junctures, naming constellations for his dogs and for all the weapons he’ll use to gain his freedom. When he reaches a hand back up to swipe at his nose, there are tears on his face as well. Patience. Patience and clarity and righteous anger.

He dreams of running through the fields behind his house, dogs leading him and chasing him under an open sky. Winston howls, and the stars burn bright. He wakes to stark fluorescent lights and the clang of metal doors. His breath catches in his chest and he coughs until his vision dims. A guard watches impassively as he sneezes messily and stumbles toward the sink. He’s shaking again. Still. He forces himself to stand up straight and meet the guard’s eyes. His body may be rebelling, succumbing to the dank prison cell, but for once, his mind is strong. He glances to the ceiling, and sees beyond, and holds onto that hope like a sword.


End file.
